Money & Power Essays 1 of 8
Introduction
In a Mesopotamian village five thousand years ago, a farmer hands over a sack of barley to secure a tool, trusting its weight as payment. In a server room today, a coder watches lines of code yield Bitcoin, trusting an algorithm to hold value. Across millennia, these scenes—seemingly worlds apart—share a common thread: money, in all its forms, rests on trust. From grains to digital tokens, humanity has crafted systems to exchange value, each rooted in a collective belief that what we trade will endure. Yet this history is not a simple ascent of innovation, as some might argue, but a series of cycles where trust rises, peaks, strains, and reinvents itself. This essay explores that story, tracing money’s evolution through the shifting foundations—or “denominators”—we have trusted to define worth.
Traditional narratives, like Niall Ferguson’s The Ascent of Money, frame financial history as a ladder of progress, climbing from primitive barter to modern markets (Ferguson, 2008). While compelling, such views often overlook the fragility at money’s core. As anthropologist David Graeber notes, money emerges not just from need but from social agreements—trust in what it represents (Debt, 2011). When that trust holds, economies flourish; when it falters, systems collapse or transform. This essay proposes a different lens: money’s development unfolds in cycles, each marked by a new denominator of trust—be it a physical good, a ruler’s stamp, an institution’s promise, or a decentralized network. These cycles reveal a pattern of inception, adoption, strain, and rebirth, driven less by inevitable advancement and more by the ebb and flow of human confidence.
What follows is a journey through these stages. It begins with commodity money, where trust rested in tangible items like barley or silver, and moves to coins, where faith shifted to sovereign authority. Paper money and credit then placed trust in promises, scaled by early banks, while the modern era saw banking systems and fiat currencies lean on institutional and governmental stability. Today, Bitcoin and cryptocurrencies challenge that order, rooting trust in code and consensus rather than centralized power. Each phase, from ancient fields to digital ledgers, reflects a denominator we’ve relied upon—until its limits spurred a new cycle. By examining this arc, this essay argues that money’s history is a story of trust’s resilience and reinvention, with Bitcoin not as an endpoint but as a pivot in an ongoing saga. Through this lens, we can better understand not just where money has been, but where its foundations might shift next.
Section 1: The Trust Cycle Framework
To understand money’s evolution from barley to Bitcoin, we must first recognize it as a phenomenon rooted in trust—a belief that sustains its value across time and place. This essay frames that history not as a linear progression but as a series of cycles, each driven by the rise and fall of confidence in a system of exchange. These trust cycles follow a recurring pattern: inception, where a new form of money gains acceptance; peak, where widespread trust enables its dominance; strain, where flaws or external pressures erode faith; and rebirth, where a new system emerges to restore stability. This model departs from traditional views of financial development as a steady climb, instead highlighting trust as the fragile yet dynamic engine of change.
At the heart of each cycle lies what this essay terms a “denominator”—the foundation we trust to measure and store value. These denominators shift with each phase, reflecting the needs and beliefs of their era. In early societies, trust rested in physical goods like grain or metal; later, it shifted to the authority of rulers, the promises of bankers, the systems of institutions, and now the algorithms of decentralized networks. As Karl Polanyi argued, money is not merely a tool but a social institution, its worth tied to collective agreement (The Great Transformation, 1944). When that agreement holds—whether in a shell’s scarcity or a blockchain’s security—money functions. When it fractures, as in times of debasement or crisis, the cycle turns.
This framework matters because it reveals money’s history as a human story, not just an economic one. Yuval Noah Harari notes that trust underpins our largest systems, from trade to technology (Sapiens, 2011). By tracing these cycles, we see how each denominator—be it a tangible object or an abstract promise—anchors belief until its limits are exposed, prompting reinvention. What follows will apply this lens to money’s past and present, showing how trust, more than innovation alone, has shaped its path from ancient commodities to digital frontiers.
Section 2: Barley and Commodity Money
The story of money begins not with coins or paper, but with the stuff of daily life—barley, shells, cattle, and metals. In the earliest human societies, before specialized currencies emerged, trust rested in commodities with intrinsic value, marking the first cycle of money’s evolution. This denominator—tangible goods—solved the inefficiencies of barter, where trade required both parties to want what the other offered. Instead, items like grain or cowrie shells became trusted proxies for value, their worth rooted in utility or scarcity. Yet this system, while foundational, revealed its limits, setting the stage for money’s next form.
The inception of commodity money dates back at least five millennia. In Mesopotamia, around 3000 BCE, barley served as a unit of account and payment, its weight recorded on clay tablets as wages or taxes (Davies, 1994). Translated records reveal workers receiving rations in measures called sila, a practice tying trust to a crop’s abundance and storability (The Ancient Near East, ed. Chavalas, 2006). Across the globe, similar systems arose: Pacific Islanders used cowrie shells, valued for their rarity, while African societies traded salt or cattle. By 2000 BCE, metals—copper, silver, tin—gained favor, their durability and divisibility making them a trusted medium along trade routes like the Silk Road. Philip Grierson notes that such commodities worked because their value was widely recognized, requiring no central authority to enforce it (The Origins of Money, 1977).
At its peak, commodity money enabled complex economies. In Sumer, temples doubled as granaries, redistributing barley in a proto-banking system. Metals, meanwhile, crossed borders, their weight standardized by merchants from India to Egypt. Trust in these goods rested on their physical properties—barley fed families, silver crafted tools—making them a denominator both practical and universal. Yet this peak carried seeds of strain. Supply was uneven: a drought could shrink barley stocks, while metal deposits varied by region. Counterfeiting plagued trade, as traders mixed base metals with silver, diluting its worth. By 1000 BCE, the hassle of weighing and testing commodities—lacking uniform standards—slowed exchange, eroding confidence in their reliability.
This strain birthed a turning point. In Lydia, a kingdom in modern-day Turkey, around 700 BCE, the first coins appeared, minted from electrum—a mix of gold and silver—and stamped with a ruler’s mark. This shift marked the cycle’s rebirth, moving trust from the intrinsic value of goods to the authority guaranteeing them. No longer did traders need to assess a lump of metal; the state’s seal promised consistency. In Mesopotamia, as centralized powers grew, commodity systems waned, replaced by coined money that scaled with empires. The cycle closed as barley and shells faded from ledgers, their role as denominators eclipsed by a new foundation.
This first cycle reveals trust’s early contours. Commodities worked because their value was tangible—eaten, worn, or forged—yet their limits exposed the need for a more flexible anchor. As Glyn Davies observes, money’s origins lie in solving practical problems, but its evolution hinges on adapting trust to new demands (1994). The move to coins was not just technological but social, reflecting a society ready to place faith in symbols over substance. From fields and mines, the denominator shifted, setting money on a path where trust, not just utility, would define its course.
Section 3: Coins and State Power
As commodity money strained under uneven supply and inconsistent trust, a new denominator emerged: coins stamped with the authority of rulers. Around 700 BCE, in the Lydian kingdom of Asia Minor, the first known coins—made of electrum, a natural alloy of gold and silver—marked the inception of a cycle where trust shifted from the inherent worth of materials to the guarantee of a state. This innovation, refined by Greek city-states and Persian empires, offered a standardized medium that fueled trade and taxation across vast regions. Yet, like its predecessor, this system peaked, strained, and gave way to reinvention, revealing trust’s dependence on the powers upholding it.
The cycle began with a leap in efficiency. Lydian coins, bearing a lion’s head, replaced the need to weigh raw metal, their value assured by royal decree (Chown, 1994). By 600 BCE, Greek poleis minted silver drachmas, and Persia issued gold darics, each tied to a ruler’s reputation. Rome’s denarius, introduced around 211 BCE, epitomized this trust at its peak, circulating from Britain to Syria. The coin’s silver content—initially near-pure—symbolized imperial stability, enabling markets and armies to thrive. John F. Chown notes that coined money’s success lay in its uniformity, a trust anchored not in the metal alone but in the state’s ability to enforce its worth (A History of Money, 1994). Merchants and citizens accepted it, confident in the issuer’s power.
This peak, however, masked vulnerabilities. By the 3rd century CE, Rome faced strain as emperors debased the denarius to fund wars and deficits. Under Nero (54-68 CE), silver content dropped from 98% to 93%, a trend worsening over decades—by 270 CE, it was mere bronze with a silver wash (Tacitus, Annals, trans. 1937). Historian Tacitus records merchants rejecting these coins, inflation soaring as trust eroded. Beyond Rome, clipped edges and counterfeits plagued Greek and Persian systems, while conquests disrupted minting consistency. Barry Eichengreen highlights how state-backed money scaled trust but tied it to political fortunes (Globalizing Capital, 1996). When empires faltered—Rome’s western collapse by 476 CE—or overreached, the denominator weakened.
The strain led to rebirth, though unevenly. In post-Roman Europe, coin scarcity drove a retreat to barter and local exchange, trust in centralized authority shattered. By the 7th century, Byzantine and Islamic coins—gold solidi and dinars—filled some gaps, but the West lagged. Meanwhile, in China, the Tang Dynasty (618-907 CE) experimented with “flying cash”—merchant notes tied to coin reserves—hinting at a new denominator: promises over metal. Europe’s full shift came later, with medieval mints and credit emerging by the 12th century. The coinage cycle closed as trust in sovereign stamps proved too brittle, pushing money toward lighter, riskier forms.
This cycle underscores trust’s reliance on stability. Coins worked when states could deliver—Rome at its height, Persia under Darius—but crumbled when they couldn’t. The denominator of sovereign guarantee scaled exchange beyond commodities, yet its fate was bound to human governance. As empires minted their way to ruin, trust sought a new anchor, one less tied to a single throne. From Lydia’s workshops to Rome’s ruins, this phase showed money’s power to unite, and its vulnerability when the trust it bore wore thin.
Section 4: Paper and Credit’s Rise
As coins faltered under debasement and political upheaval, money’s next cycle turned to a lighter, more flexible denominator: promises. Emerging first in Tang Dynasty China around 600 CE and later in medieval Europe, paper money and credit marked a shift from trust in physical objects to faith in written commitments—be they from merchants, rulers, or bankers. This innovation enabled trade across vast distances and fueled economic booms, yet its reliance on human integrity and oversight led to strain, paving the way for institutional rebirth. The cycle of paper and credit reveals trust stretching beyond metal into the realm of abstraction.
The inception unfolded in China with “flying cash,” promissory notes issued by merchants during the Tang Dynasty (618-907 CE). These slips, redeemable for coins at distant warehouses, gained trust as a practical alternative to hauling metal over trade routes. By the Song Dynasty (960-1279 CE), the state issued jiaozi, the world’s first true paper currency, backed by coin reserves (von Glahn, 1996). In Europe, the shift began later, with Italian city-states like Venice and Florence pioneering bills of exchange in the 13th century. These notes, promises to pay between merchants, rested on personal reputations, as seen in Medici ledgers detailing loans to kings and traders (The Medici, ed. Strathern, 2003). Trust in these early papers stemmed from their issuers’ credibility, not intrinsic worth.
The cycle peaked as paper scaled economies. In China, the Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368 CE) printed vast sums, standardizing money across an empire stretching from Korea to Persia. Richard von Glahn notes this as a high point of trust, with paper lubricating commerce and taxation (Fountain of Fortune, 1996). In Europe, the Renaissance owed much to credit: the Medici bank, peaking in the 15th century, funded art and war, its bills trusted across continents. Fernand Braudel describes this era as a trust network, where Italian bankers turned promises into power (Civilization and Capitalism, 1979). Paper and credit outpaced coins, their flexibility a denominator that matched growing trade.
Strain, however, loomed large. In China, the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644 CE) inherited Yuan habits, overprinting paper until hyperinflation rendered it worthless by the 1450s—trust collapsed as notes lost purchasing power (von Glahn, 1996). Europe faced parallel woes: the Medici bank faltered in 1494, its loans to unreliable princes unpaid, shaking faith in personal credit (Strathern, 2003). Fraud and war compounded the issue—forged bills circulated, and conflicts disrupted repayment. Braudel points out that trust in paper hinged on stability; when issuers faltered, so did the system (1979). Unlike coins, whose metal retained some value, paper’s worth vanished without confidence, exposing its fragility as a denominator.
Rebirth came through stronger structures. In China, the Ming reverted to silver, but Europe leaned forward. The Bank of Amsterdam, founded in 1609, issued notes tied to coin deposits, restoring trust by anchoring paper to a verifiable reserve (Chown, 1994). This marked a pivot to institutional trust, distinct from the personal promises of merchants or the unchecked decrees of emperors. England’s goldsmiths followed suit in the 17th century, their receipts evolving into early banknotes. The cycle closed as paper money, once a daring experiment, found firmer footing in organized systems, setting the stage for modern banking.
This cycle highlights trust’s expansion—and its risks. Paper and credit freed money from physical limits, enabling empires and markets to flourish, yet their success depended on the reliability of those behind them. When rulers overprinted or bankers overpromised, trust dissolved, proving this denominator as potent as it was precarious. From Tang caravans to Florentine counting houses, the shift to promises showed money’s adaptability, but also its need for a sturdier anchor— one that institutions, not individuals, would soon provide.
Section 5: Banking, Gold, and Fiat
As paper money strained under overissuance and broken promises, trust sought a more robust denominator: systems upheld by institutions and, later, governments. Beginning in the 17th century with early banks and peaking in the 19th-century gold standard, this cycle scaled money to unprecedented heights, only to falter under war and economic shocks, giving rise to fiat currencies. From centralized reserves to state-backed notes, this phase reflects trust’s journey through structured systems, culminating in a model untethered from physical anchors—a shift that would test its resilience and spark a digital response.
The cycle’s inception took root in Europe’s nascent banking institutions. The Bank of Amsterdam, established in 1609, issued notes redeemable for deposited coins, rebuilding trust after the chaos of personal credit (Kindleberger, 1984). England followed with the Bank of England in 1694, chartered to fund war with notes tied to gold reserves. This marked a shift: trust now rested not in merchants or kings, but in systems promising convertibility. Charles P. Kindleberger notes that fractional reserve banking—lending beyond reserves—amplified money’s reach, its stability hinging on depositors’ faith (A Financial History of Western Europe, 1984). By the 18th century, banknotes circulated widely, their value assured by institutional oversight.
The peak arrived with the gold standard, formalized in the 1870s. Nations like Britain tied currencies to gold, promising redemption at fixed rates—the pound sterling became “as good as gold.” This global system, spanning Europe, the Americas, and colonies, fostered trade and investment, its trust rooted in gold’s scarcity and the discipline it imposed on governments (Eichengreen, 1992). Barry Eichengreen describes this as a pinnacle of monetary trust, with central banks like the Bank of England anchoring an interconnected economy (Golden Fetters, 1992). Paper, once fragile, gained credibility through a tangible denominator, its value no longer a mere promise but a metallic guarantee.
Strain, however, emerged with modernity’s upheavals. World War I (1914-1918) forced nations to suspend gold convertibility, printing money to fund armies—Britain’s gold reserves dwindled as war debts soared (Kindleberger, 1984). The interwar years saw brief returns to gold, but the Great Depression (1929-1939) exposed its rigidity: deflation crippled economies as nations clung to fixed rates. Eichengreen argues that gold’s trust broke under pressure—countries like the U.S. abandoned it in 1933, hoarding metal rather than circulating it (1992). The final blow came in 1971, when President Richard Nixon ended the dollar’s gold link, closing the Bretton Woods system. His televised address cited “international money speculators,” but the move reflected a deeper shift (Address to the Nation, 1971). Trust in gold as a denominator crumbled, strained by war, depression, and global imbalance.
Rebirth arrived as fiat money—currencies backed solely by government decree. Post-1971, the U.S. dollar retained global dominance, its value resting on faith in American stability, not metal. Milton Friedman saw this as a pragmatic evolution, arguing that trust in governments could sustain money if managed wisely (Money Mischief, 1992). Central banks wielded tools like interest rates to bolster confidence, and by the late 20th century, fiat underpinned a financial boom—credit cards, derivatives, and digital transactions thrived. Yet this denominator carried risks: without gold’s discipline, states could print freely, a freedom tested by crises like the 2008 financial collapse, where bailouts shook public faith.
This cycle reveals trust’s institutional turn. Banking gave paper a backbone, the gold standard globalized it, and fiat untethered it, each phase scaling money’s power through systems rather than objects or individuals. Kindleberger notes that trust in banks and states enabled this expansion, but it tied money to human decisions—war cabinets, central bankers, presidents (1984). When those systems held, as in the gold standard’s heyday, trust peaked; when they faltered, as in 1971, it strained. Fiat’s rise marked a bold leap, relying on belief in governance over any physical anchor—a leap that, by the early 21st century, faced new doubts. The 2008 crisis, with its bank failures and currency devaluations, exposed fiat’s vulnerabilities, setting the stage for a cycle where trust would seek a radically different foundation.
Section 6: Bitcoin and the Digital Rebirth
The 2008 financial crisis—marked by bank failures, bailouts, and eroded faith in fiat systems—ignited money’s latest trust cycle, one rooted in a new denominator: code and consensus. Bitcoin, launched in 2009 by the pseudonymous Satoshi Nakamoto, emerged as a response to centralized fragility, offering a currency secured not by governments or gold, but by cryptographic algorithms and a decentralized network. This cycle, still unfolding, has seen rapid adoption and intense scrutiny, its trust in technology challenging traditional anchors. As it peaks and strains, Bitcoin signals a potential rebirth, raising questions about where trust might settle next.
The cycle’s inception was deliberate and symbolic. Nakamoto’s Bitcoin whitepaper, published in October 2008, critiqued fiat’s reliance on “trusted third parties,” embedding a headline from that year’s bank bailouts in Bitcoin’s genesis block (Bitcoin: A Peer-to-Peer Electronic Cash System, 2008). Unlike prior systems, Bitcoin operates on blockchain—a public ledger maintained by a global network of computers, or nodes, where trust stems from mathematical consensus, not human oversight. Early adopters, posting on forums like Bitcointalk, embraced it as a hedge against inflation and control, their faith fueled by code’s transparency (Bitcointalk.org, 2009-2010). By 2011, Bitcoin’s value rose from cents to dollars, marking trust’s tentative foothold in this digital frontier.
The peak came swiftly. By 2021, Bitcoin’s market capitalization topped $1 trillion, with corporations like Tesla and nations like El Salvador accepting it as payment (Vigna & Casey, 2015). Ethereum and other cryptocurrencies expanded the ecosystem, their smart contracts promising trust in programmable agreements. Paul Vigna and Michael Casey describe this as a trust revolution, where blockchain’s immutability—each transaction verified by thousands—replaced fallible institutions (The Age of Cryptocurrency, 2015). Andreas Antonopoulos explains the denominator: trust in Bitcoin rests on its fixed supply (21 million coins) and decentralized governance, free from state manipulation (Mastering Bitcoin, 2014). For a world wary of 2008’s excess, this peak offered a radical alternative, scaling trust through technology.
Strain, however, tests this promise. Bitcoin’s price crashed over 60% in 2022, reflecting volatility that deters mainstream use—$69,000 in November 2021 became $16,000 a year later (CoinMarketCap, 2023). Scams like Mt. Gox (2014), where 850,000 Bitcoins vanished, and environmental critiques—mining’s energy use rivals small nations—erode confidence (Vigna & Casey, 2015). Regulation looms: governments, from China’s 2021 crypto ban to U.S. tax rules, challenge its autonomy. Nakamoto’s vision of trust without intermediaries clashes with practical limits—slow transactions (seven per second vs. Visa’s thousands) and user errors (lost keys locking away billions). This strain echoes past cycles: a bold denominator thrives until its flaws surface, testing trust’s durability.
Rebirth remains uncertain, its contours emerging. Some see Bitcoin maturing into a “digital gold,” a store of value complementing fiat, as El Salvador’s experiment suggests (2021-present). Others point to central bank digital currencies (CBDCs), like China’s digital yuan, pulling trust back to states with blockchain’s tools (BIS, 2023). A hybrid future—crypto coexisting with regulated systems—could balance decentralization’s appeal with stability’s need. Antonopoulos argues that blockchain’s trust model is irreversible, its openness a template for what’s next (2014). Yet, as in prior cycles, strain may force adaptation: if Bitcoin falters, a new digital form—or a return to centralized anchors—might rise.
This cycle redefines trust’s foundation. Where fiat leaned on governments, Bitcoin bets on networks and code, a denominator born from 2008’s ashes. Its peak reflects a hunger for alternatives, its strain a reminder of money’s persistent challenges—scalability, security, acceptance. Vigna and Casey note that crypto’s promise lies in its defiance of centralisation, yet its survival hinges on navigating the same trust dynamics that shaped barley, coins, and paper (2015). As fiat’s weaknesses linger—post-COVID inflation, debt crises—Bitcoin’s experiment tests whether trust can truly detach from human hands. The cycle’s end is unwritten, but its arc suggests that, like its predecessors, it will evolve, not conclude.
Section 7: Patterns and Predictions
Money’s history, from barley sacks to Bitcoin’s blockchain, reveals a recurring pattern: trust cycles driven by shifting denominators—anchors we rely on until their limits spur change. Each phase—commodities, coins, paper, banking systems, and digital networks—follows a rhythm of inception, peak, strain, and rebirth, shaped by the ebb and flow of confidence. This synthesis uncovers a core truth: money thrives when trust aligns with a society’s needs, falters when it doesn’t, and adapts through new foundations. As Bitcoin’s cycle unfolds, these patterns offer clues to what might lie ahead.
The denominators tell the story. Barley and shells rooted trust in tangible utility, scaling trade until supply and consistency failed. Coins shifted it to sovereign power, peaking with empires like Rome, then straining under debasement. Paper and credit leaned on promises, flourishing in Renaissance markets and Chinese dynasties, only to collapse when overissued. Banking and fiat systems—gold, then government faith—globalized trust, crumbling under war and economic shocks. Now, Bitcoin’s code and consensus challenge centralization, echoing past reinventions. Yuval Noah Harari frames this as trust’s evolution, from physical objects to shared fictions that bind us (Sapiens, 2011). Each cycle builds on the last, yet none escapes the need for belief.
What emerges is resilience, not finality. Bitcoin mirrors paper’s debut—radical, volatile, transformative—suggesting it’s not an endpoint but a pivot. Strain, a constant across cycles, tests it: volatility and scams echo Ming hyperinflation or Roman clipped coins. Kenneth Rogoff predicts digital money’s rise, but sees state-backed forms like CBDCs tempering crypto’s wildness (The Curse of Cash, 2016). The Bank for International Settlements notes over 100 countries exploring CBDCs by 2023, blending blockchain’s trust with fiat’s stability (BIS, 2023). This hints at a hybrid future—decentralized ideals meeting centralized control—much as banks tamed paper’s chaos in the 17th century.
Prediction remains speculative, yet history suggests trust will find a new anchor. If Bitcoin’s strain deepens, a refined digital system—perhaps fusing crypto’s openness with regulated oversight—could emerge. Alternatively, fiat’s resilience might hold, bolstered by CBDCs. The cycle’s lesson is adaptation: no denominator lasts forever. As trust shifted from fields to thrones to ledgers, it will shift again, driven by the same forces—need, doubt, ingenuity—that carried it from barley to now. The question is not whether Bitcoin endures, but how its challenge reshapes the next foundation.
Conclusion
From the barley fields of Mesopotamia to the blockchain networks of today, money’s history unfolds as a series of trust cycles, each defined by a denominator—a foundation we’ve relied on to measure and exchange value. This journey—through commodities, coins, paper, banking systems, and now digital currencies—reveals not a steady climb, but a rhythm of trust built, strained, and reborn. Barley anchored early trade in its tangible worth, coins tied it to rulers’ decrees, paper stretched it into promises, banks and fiat scaled it through systems, and Bitcoin reimagines it as code and consensus. Each shift reflects humanity’s capacity to adapt belief to circumstance, a resilience that binds these eras together.
This trust-driven lens reframes money’s story. Where commodities faltered, authority rose; where paper overreached, institutions stepped in; where fiat wavered, technology struck back. Bitcoin’s emergence, born from 2008’s distrust, mirrors these pivots—not an end, but a challenge to centralized faith. Its potential lies in this disruption, offering a denominator free of human gatekeepers, yet its strains—volatility, regulation—echo the fragility of past systems. As David Graeber suggests, money’s power stems from collective faith, a thread that holds whether we trade grain or digital tokens (Debt, 2011). History shows this faith evolves, not expires, suggesting that today’s digital experiment will shape, not settle, the next cycle.
What lies ahead remains unwritten. Will trust settle in decentralized networks, state-backed digital currencies, or an unseen hybrid? The cycles—from barley’s simplicity to Bitcoin’s complexity—teach us that money bends to the needs and doubts of its time. Each rebirth, from coins to fiat, met strain with innovation; the present is no different. As we stand at this crossroads, the question lingers: where will trust take us next? In fields, mints, banks, and now code, we’ve trusted what we must. The answer, like money itself, will emerge from the interplay of belief and necessity, a foundation yet to be forged.
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